An Exchanging
by DreamALltHopeALlt
Summary: Ivan wanted Alfred's sapphire eyes. Alfred wanted Ivan's pure heart. What could be wrong with taking them?
1. His Eyes

**An Exchanging**

* * *

_I liked his eyes and,_

_I wanted them._

**

* * *

**Everyone thought his eyes were beautiful.

They claimed that violet - his pale and light lavender violet - was such a rare color for eyes. That the softness of the hue was a deep and unsettling contrast to such a cold interior. They would gaze upon his face - some unwillingly, those willing perhaps regretting the decision afterwards - and immediately, their expression would change. For the brief second that gazes were exchanged, he could imagine the thought flickering in their mind,

_How could this monster...have such beautiful eyes?_

How could a monster have such a light and carefree color of violet embedded within irises so emotionless, empty, and...

Dead.

_Perhaps_, Ivan Braginski had reasoned, _they believe that death is beautiful._

And then he would fall to his bed, thinking - as he always did on days when the sun had no strength to shove through the barricade of clouds - and when he cast a violet-eyed stare out the frosty windowpane of his home, he would smile.

Because people were so _silly _sometimes.

Because there was nothing special about the color purple that expanded across and around and through his irises.

Because, well, _he _thought that blue was much more beautiful.

Yes - _blue_.

A sparkling sapphire blue that could only speak of innocence - _so naive and so young_ - an innocence that would morph into an annoying but excusable complex. And then - there would appear, only on rare and frugal occasions, a strange shift of bright blue to dark rage. The shift from peace and amity to hatred and violence.

And perhaps that was why he loved the sapphire eyes so much more than his own violet ones.

There was nothing more beautiful than the violent change in them.

At night, if he could close his eyes through the iciness of the atmosphere and to the blurring shapes that crisscrossed his room, he would dream of the blue eyes. They would be set on such a young, and such a vexing face, and around that face would be yellow - almost delicate gold - blonde hair. And that head, with that pair of eyes, would be laying next to him and falling onto the bed would be those small drops of tears, the sounds of the familiar whimper and moan breaking the silence.

_And is it okay_, Ivan would ask in the darkness, with only his questioning gaze leering into the other's, _if I -_

_Eat them?_

Then - of course, there would be consent. And even if this person had said no - because this person was the only person who had ever opposed him - then he would have just laughed and plunged right in. No one could - would, or _wanted_ to - stop him when he found his attention zeroing in on _that_ person.

Blue eyes tasted so delicious - so beautiful, so very much full of sunlight. And the wet dark substance falling behind them was a welcoming added bonus. And the screams that would accompany this act, the punches that would blindly and lightly touch to kill him, was a welcoming added bonus. And the retaliation, with the other eye narrowing in hatred and then a sudden uncontrollable insanity and then _violence, _of a missing organ - or rather, a _beating _organ - was a welcoming added bonus.

If Ivan liked them,

Then what was wrong with taking them?

_Why_,

The Russian smiled, his beautifully rare eyes widening with glee and desire,

_I bet I could use the blood as dipping sauce!_

_

* * *

_**A/N:** What, indeed, could be wrong with stealing eyes?

(*groans* so OOC.) This was inspired by a random Ivan x Alfred picture I saw on photobucket and fell in love with. And thanks to Kaskaskia, I can now fully give the author her credit:

**http :/russiamerica. deviantart .com /gallery/? set=24357083&offset=48#/d204p00**

Look at it! You know you want to~! And this story is a two-part Oneshot, btw.

Reviews are very welcomed :'D


	2. His Heart

**An Exchanging**

* * *

_I saw his heart and,_

_I wanted it._

_

* * *

_Everyone claimed he had a good, pure heart.

_Always trying to help_, they would say and smile, _always trying to be the hero._ They were constantly bothered by his cheerful disposition - his "lack of brains" - and foolhardy demeanor, saying things to veer him off his course of stupidity and occasionally - mayhem. And although, whenever they met his open and wide gaze, the wish of words like 'Go away' or 'Leave us alone' echoed in their minds, there was something else - something almost intangible and murky - beneath those train of thoughts,

_His heart is a good one._

A heart as fake, as cold and harsh, as any other heart in the world.

_It's strange_, Alfred F. Jones concluded,_ how people only look on the outside. _If his mind, usually filled with senseless ramblings and whatnots, were to take a brief respite down a place full of darkness and distortion - then he would smile and flush with a sudden and new intensity, swirling in thoughts that were not his customary ones, and revel in the way his "good" heart felt so empty, so cold.

Because people were so _stupid _sometimes.

Because he had seen - on a day that passed by in a blur, as countless as every day of his eternal life - that there was a heart more pure, more beautiful than his own.

He had only caught a glimpse of it once on a Conference table, had heard the nonchalant yet slightly embarrassed words of its owner, the gasps of horror that seem to spread and choke the entire room - and his eyes had grown wide with pleasure. The beating of it, light and soft - fluttery like a wounded bird trying to escape - was so alive in its own abhorrent and pulsing way. So very _real_, and full of life, unlike the stiff thing in his chest - unlike the stiff things in every person's chest.

This heart was the pure one.

Sometimes, when he arrived home from an exhausting and pointless day of work, he would fall to his sofa and cast a monotone gaze to the ceiling. The weak breathing of his chest would respond to a single touch - he would place a hand on it, just a little left of the center, and close his eyes to the deadness of his body. And maybe, if he was lucky enough, the change in his thoughts could take him down that warped tunnel of fantasy, to the brewing and ever-present desire of stealing and holding the one and only real heart in his hands.

Of taking it and squeezing it - until the sac of an organ collapsed and exploded in his monstrous grip. It would fill his palm with its watery and red liquid, spilling onto his shirt, his pants, the ground - and forever, he'd stand in that pool of blood.

_Will you_, Alfred would smile at the person, taking one step closer to the destroyed and slumped body, _kill me if I -_

_Eat it?_

Then - of course, there would be consent. Because this person - with his cold amethyst eyes - never said no to him, and even if such a thought ever crossed his mind, the idea of revenge - of retaliation - was a much more promising way of dealing with Alfred.

Smiling, the American laid his head on the arm of his sofa, one blue eye opened and the other closed. Revenge dictated something in return - Perhaps an arm. Perhaps a leg. Or perhaps a brilliant sapphire eye.

And this thought was such a - very much more - welcoming sensation than the coldness of his single, robotic heart. And this feeling was such a - very prominent and satisfying - relief from the facades of cheerful and expansive delight.

If Alfred needed it,

Then what was wrong with taking it?

_Maybe,_

The American mused, filled with a mounting pleasure and anticipation,

_I could take one of his eyes too!_

_

* * *

_**Epilogue:**

So the next day, Ivan invited Alfred to his house, and Ivan gouged one blue eye out and was surprised when Alfred scratched his heart through his chest and onto the table and a silver plate. And although Alfred didn't get his hands on a violet eye, he still had one of his own eyes left to gaze into the counterpart, lovely amethyst depths.

_End._

* * *

**A/N:** LMAO, Ignore the Epilogue please! It's just so random and so stupid - but I felt like adding it. XD

Me: So began the Cold War...?

You guys: WTF?

Me: Idk, man. But Alfred shouldn't be too greedy when it comes to Ivan ^-^ There might be more revenge~!

Now we know that Alfred can be equally - or perhaps a little more - crazed than Ivan, at times. I didn't really like writing Alfred's part as much as Ivan's (I love mah Russian) so it kinda _sucked_, but oh well. By the way, you guys really need to look at the picture that inspired this monstrosity and gaze upon its perfect and epicness beauty. Someone gave me the link to it on DA, and it's now posted at the end of chapter 1. (I could say the Epilogue was created especially for that scene...)

Reviews are greatly appreciated.!


End file.
